


The Floating Properties of Heavy Objects

by Arsenic



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2020-11-28 16:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Misfortune Manor is kind of a misnomer.





	The Floating Properties of Heavy Objects

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this one takes some context. Basically, on her birthday a few years back, egelantier sent me a commentfic that she and rufus had been sort of poking at for a long time. It was a sprawling slavefic. Later, R converted said fic (or, well, parts of it) into [this wonderful big bang piece](http://sailorstkwrning.livejournal.com/58046.html). When R donated to help me out with my fundraising goal for Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, she asked if I would remix one of the parts with my own interpretation of the original commentfic. So, yeah, this is literally like cutting a swath of cloth from a dress and expecting someone to be able to see the dress in their mind based on that swatch. Also, this is unbeta'ed, because I wanted it to be up by the time R got out of taking her bar (coming in JUST under the deadline...) Love you, sweets!

There are very few facts Spencer feels he can trust any longer, but until this moment he would have said with all certainty that nobody, _nobody_ was sold on from the mines. And even if, perhaps, there was the strange exception which did nothing but prove that rule, it was not in the case of slaves who had not fared well, whose lungs brought up nothing but soot and whose bodies radiated nothing but fever.

For the entirety of the carriage ride, being jostled and thrown and generally having his injuries exacerbated by travel, Spencer is sure he has died, has gone to hell. It's fitting, really, and no more than he deserves for leaving Ryan on his own. (The tiny voice of reason that reminds him it was not his choice becomes quieter as the delirium makes everything else louder.)

Only, the manor to which he is brought does not fit in with his version of hell, nor does the careful nursing of him which takes place over the next week or so. Time is a little fluid, but he's aware of its passage. When he wakes, truly wakes, not just a frightened rising from a nightmare or a moment of dubious consciousness, a man with dark eyes and dark hair and a strangely kind face says, "Good. We weren't very hopeful with you."

Spencer blinks. "Master?"

The man ducks his head, shaking it at the same time. "No, not even your owner, although I doubt Frank will take to you calling him that much better."

Spencer has so many questions. He knows better than to ask them. Ryan is the one who likes to push boundaries. Spencer is a fan of passive resistance. The man looks up and smiles. "Welcome to Misfortune Manor."

Spencer swallows. Even if the name was not ominous, its reputation would be. Slaves disappeared from here, consistently, to the point where the government had once poked about simply to make sure there weren't freemen being murdered as well.

The man rolls his eyes. "Shouldn't believe everything you hear. And Frank only calls it that because he wanted to become a minstrel and instead got stuck tending to this place. It's really Iero Manor."

Spencer doesn't believe everything he hears; mostly just the bad stuff. Nonetheless, he nods his head as if to agree. "Yes…sir."

The man grumbles a little, but it's under his breath. "Gee, Gerard if you must. And you are?"

There's no real power in a name, but Spencer has had his taken from him enough that he is conservative in giving it out. "Smith."

Gerard's smile is knowing. "Pleasure making your acquaintance."

*

Within days, Spencer is mobile again, able to help out in the kitchens for short periods of time, as well as with other minor household duties. He waits, only somewhat patiently, for someone to explain to him how the time and effort put into him while he was sick will be taken out of his hide, but nobody is interested in telling him much of anything aside from when to come for meals and to make sure and change his bandages.

Spencer uses the time he's not being watched—which is most of the time—to learn the layout of the Manor, see what type of security is employed to keep the slaves in. He's seen workers on the property and even a few persons here and there who it seems possible are slaves, but there aren't many. If they're dead, Spencer imagines they've been taken out to the forest that lines the estate to hide the corpses. It's only logical, though, that his owner would have a way of preventing escape.

Spencer can't figure out what it is, and he's wasting time in this place, being well-fed and carefully joked with and given light duties, waiting for punishment to be sprung upon him. He doesn't know where Ryan is or how he'll manage to get Ryan out if he can find him, but it doesn't change anything. Spencer can't stay here, not if he has a chance to run, a chance to try.

*

Spencer takes his chance a little less than a month after being bought. He's hidden bits of bread and a few oranges and apples in a sack. He'll find water once he's in the forest. If he can make it there, he's pretty sure he has a chance of actually getting away. Then he'll just have to find the place where Ryan was sold away, see if he can follow any sort of trail.

He slips out of the Manor well after dark. The inhabitants are still awake, he knows, he'd have to wait until much later to avoid that, which wouldn't give him much time to travel before it is light again. He's chosen this as the lesser of the evils. There is almost no cover until he makes it to the forest. With any type of light, he will be completely exposed.

He makes it less than halfway to the forest when he hears the dogs behind him. He starts to run in earnest, terrified, but they catch him anyway. He throws his hands up and tries to curl into a ball to lessen the damage. It takes him a second to realize that none of them are biting. They've got him surrounded and are sniffing and licking and barking, but in a way that seems…playful?

Spencer opens his eyes and blinks. In the dark he can just see a silhouette. He thinks it's a girl until the man speaks. "Well, now that you’ve gotten the pups all riled up, you might as well come back and help me wear them out."

The man reaches down and hauls Spencer out of the dogpile. He says, "I'm Frank, by the way. We haven't met yet, because I was off gallivanting, well, trying to get the woman of my dreams to marry me, but same thing, really. Gee says you've been doing better, though."

It takes a second, but the name clicks for Spencer. Frank as in Frank Iero, of Misfortune Manor, technically Iero Manor. Spencer swallows his fear, swallows everything. None of it matters.

*

When they reach the house again, Gerard ushers them into the sitting room and puts a cup of something hot in Spencer's hands, with the order, "Drink."

Spencer automatically takes a sip. He's not sure why it matters, really. The punishments for running away are sale to the mines—kind of counterproductive, to Spencer's way of seeing things—death, or torture. Any which way, being hydrated isn't going to help. He supposes there could be something in tea, but it tastes pretty much like breakfast tea, and Spencer's too soul-weary to care.

"So," Frank says, sipping at his own drink. "Let's talk about why things are so bad here that you felt you had to run away."

Spencer knows he should feel frightened or angry or _something._ He just feels resigned. "Slaves run."

"If it's simply a matter of freedom, you’d have better luck just waiting for us to smuggle you into the Westlands," Frank says mildly, like he's not speaking of actions that could get him killed.

Spencer feels his brain spark a little at the incongruency of the statement. He forces himself to think, and suddenly, everything clicks into place. "You're not killing slaves."

Frank makes a face. Gerard shakes his head, eyes dark and sincere. Spencer thinks about it, about not having to look over his shoulder every day of his life, not to expect said life to end slow and dirty. It's a wonderful fantasy, really, but, "I can't. There's—I can't."

"Is this about Ryan?" Gerard asks quietly.

Spencer's attention snaps to him. Gerard shrugs. "You talk when you're delirious. Ray has been searching for days to see if he can find anything that matches the facts we have, but if you could tell us more, it would probably be of use."

Spencer feels like he can't breathe. "I don't understand."

"We buy slaves," Frank says. "Then we free them. Your friend is a slave, why shouldn't we purchase him?"

Spencer can think of roughly twenty answers to that right off the top of his head. "Because there are easier slaves to find?"

"There always will be," Gerard agrees. "We decide what we can do, and do what we can."

Spencer takes a second to parse out Gerard's tone. He sounds _sorry._ Frank says, "Give us two weeks, okay? If we can't find him by then, we'll do our best to disguise you and get you new papers and you can go look yourself."

Spencer doesn't believe it, knows that what sounds too good and looks too good to be true is never true, but he tried to run away and he's sitting in a comfortable chair drinking hot tea with men who saved him from the mines. He will give them two weeks.

*

It takes them ten days.

*

Ryan bites his tongue to stifle the cry. It's the only thing that works anymore, actually immobilizing his tongue. Nothing else is painful enough to distract from the pain he's fighting. Nothing even particularly bad is happening this morning (morning? evening?), mostly just the usual: master using him, master needing Ryan's pain to get off. It's routine, and Ryan thinks he might be able to go away in his mind, like he has for so long, except the bones that were broken when master offered Ryan up as entertainment at his latest fete are an extra agony.

Ryan thinks it's been a while since the bones broke, but he's lost the ability to count days, to even really determine days. For a long time, the passage of moments has been marked by those when he is in less pain, and those when he is in more. That doesn't tell him much, but he's grown tired of caring.

When he can get away, when he can trick himself into leaving this place, this body, he finds Spencer, and spends a few hours lying around with him, eating the blueberries that grew on Spencer's gate when they were children. He can't remember how they taste.

*

He can't help screaming when he's made to walk. His right hip will not take the weight, at all, and he lands on all fours, blacking out for a moment. There's laughter and Ryan wants to snarl, wants to goad whoever is here into killing him. He doesn't have the energy.

He's picked up, then, thrown over someone's shoulder, and the impact on his hip causes him to dry heave. He wishes he'd had anything to eat in the past few days, anything to actually throw up, because he's pretty sure throwing up on his ride's back would just end things for him.

He feels the bite of the wind before he recognizes the sensation. He hasn't been outside since the market, since Spencer. It's cold and sharp and Ryan is glad he's getting this, if only for a moment. Then he's placed…inside a carriage? The hands that were rough a moment before carefully settle him on the padded seat, lying on his back. Ryan arches at the contact with the most recent of the welts and burns. There's one near his shoulder that throbs and Ryan tries to curl in on himself, but that puts pressure on the hip bone. The nausea rises up again, and dry-heaving hurts more than he remembers.

It's cold as hell in the carriage and Ryan knows he should try and pay attention, figure out what's going on, but his own shivering is magnifying every ache and pain and when the thread of unconsciousness starts to unfurl in his mind, he grabs on with both hands and lets it drag him away.

*

Ryan, having considered the possibilities, is pretty sure he died in that carriage. Ever since then, his waking moments have involved careful hands, and sips of water and he's sure, _sure_ he's seen Spencer, which kind of makes him want to cry, since it means Spencer's dead, too, but Ryan's selfish enough to be glad Spencer's in his heaven, especially as his heaven seems to involve his body still hurting more than Ryan can adequately describe.

He wakes once, and he's warm for the first time in forever and Spencer is next to him, so close Ryan could touch. He doesn't, he doesn't want to disturb the illusion. He whispers, "Missed you," and "sorry," and stays awake as long as he can so he'll have this memory for later.

*

It occurs to Ryan that he might not be completely dead upon the point at which he is woken by a dog very thoroughly licking his face. There's a laugh Ryan doesn't recognize and a voice says, "Well done, Belle, you've cleaned him very nicely."

Ryan blinks at the incredibly large dog staring down at him, and, behind the dog, a man with a shock of dark black hair, a round face, and a sweet smile. Ryan has no idea what to do with this information, where he is or what is happening. He tries, "Master?"

The smile gets wider. "No, but, goodness, you're really awake. Stay here."

Ryan thinks that's a sort of stupid order, since Ryan can't imagine getting out of this bed under his own power. He's still trying to sort everything when Spencer bursts into the room. He looks disheveled and somewhat annoyed, but well-fed and healthy. Then he says, "I spend every living moment with you and you manage to wake up when they finally force me into cleaning up?"

Ryan finds himself lifting his hand, needing to touch. He's not sure he _wants_ to, if this isn't real, if all this is a lie, trying to touch might make it crumble, might send him back where he came from. But he has to, he has to know. Spencer sits beside him and takes Ryan's hands in both of his own, wrapping them up carefully, he bends down, pressing his forehead to Ryan's. "Ry."

The nickname is said shakily, as if Spencer can't quite believe this is happening. Ryan can't blame him. He mouths, "Spence."

"I'm sorry," Spencer says, "I'm so—"

Ryan shakes his head. "My fault."

"No, but we'll argue later. You've been on the edge of death for almost three weeks now. Let's see if you can take some broth before you fall back asleep." Spencer starts to stand and Ryan finds he can't let go of Spencer's hand. He doesn't know where they are, doesn’t know what Spencer has done to find him, to get him here.

Spencer says, "All right," and calls, "Ray?"

Someone answers in the affirmative, and Spencer asks, very politely, if some broth can be brought to them. None of this makes any sense at all, and maybe Ryan is dead, but if he is, Spencer's here, so he's not complaining. Spencer stays with him, spoon-feeding him, and doesn't leave as Ryan falls back into sleep.

*

When Ryan can stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time, he asks Spencer, "We're not dead, are we?"

Spencer shakes his head, as though that's a completely reasonable inquiry. He says, "We're at Iero Manor. We're property of its owner."

"What—what does he want for this?" Ryan makes himself ask, forces himself to know, because whatever it is, _he's_ the one doing it, not Spencer. Even if he has to drug Spencer or…or something, it's not happening to Spencer.

Spencer rubs a hand over his face. "Don't laugh, but I think—I think he really is an abolitionist. All the people here are."

Ryan's eyes narrow, because that's basically impossible and someone's been lying to Spencer, and whatever that person's motive is, it can't be good. Spencer nods. "Yeah, I know, believe me, but, well, I ran and they caught me and all they did was ask where I was running to. I told them about you, I think I didn't even know what I was saying, really, and they found you, Ryan. They found you and bought you. And we've been lazing about in this bed for a month.

"If they aren't what they say they are, I don't know what to believe, really."

Ryan can't believe what Spencer is telling him. There's no world in which it can possibly be the truth. But Spencer has always been the practical one between them, the one to keep an even head. Ryan will concede to his way of thinking for now, until he can figure out the real game.

Spencer whispers, "I think, maybe, we're safe."

Ryan laces his fingers through Spencer's and allows himself to enjoy the fantasy.


End file.
